


Breeding Plumage

by TheCrazyGeek



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Feathers & Featherplay, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Office Sex, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A standalone Thick of It wingfic. Malcolm grows in his breeding plumage and goes in search of a mate to breed with...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breeding Plumage

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic from the writing team of themasterplanner / the-crazy-geek on Tumblr. This piece is left deliberately open to interpretation and, as with all of our work, if anyone wants to write their own interpretation or future fic then we have no problems with that at all :)

Tags: Malcolm Tucker/Nicola Murray, wingfic, wingkink, feathers and featherplay, office sex, mating cycles/in heat, NSFW.

Notes: This one, essentially a standalone piece that does fit into the main storyline, started off as a single email from themasterplanner about Malcolm having breeding plumage maybe. From a one-liner suggestion we ended up with this!

Additonal notes: We’ve left the ending deliberately open so people can believe (or write! we’re fine with people writing their own stuff that’s related to this) what they chose to believe what happens next. :)

*****

Nicola Murray didn’t know quite what to expect when she was summoned to the Press Office, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Malcolm Tucker was waiting for her, his back turned to her and his shirt and suit jacket laid across a chair. With a flex of his shoulders, his wings extended from his back, flaring and arching high over his shoulders with a thunderous concussion of displaced air — massive and powerful, spreading wide and puffing up like those of a bird defending its territory or trying to impress a potential mate.

For a full minute, the social affairs minister let her jaw go slack around the words dying on her tongue.

"Fuck’s sake, Nic’la, close yer mouth, ye look like a fucking dying trout."

 

Nicola finally managed to find her words. “Your wings. They look … different.” The feathers had gone from the gentle dove grey she now associated with him to a gleaming, almost metallic silver, and she could have sworn the flight feathers had grown in even longer and larger than they had been before.

When the communications director finally turned to face her, teeth bared, she saw passion and desire — and a depth of hungry, almost feral sexuality in his eyes that left her breathless.

His next words were a sensual, husky whisper that sent shivers running up her spine. His smile was wicked, decidedly predatory. “It’s my breeding plumage, love.”

"Breed-breeding plumage?" she stammered, and stepped back as he pushed himself lazily off of the desk and stepped toward her. "What does that mean?"

"Exactly what it says. Jesus, woman, is there nothing in your head except fucking _Woman’s Weekly_ and the details of your last period?” He was getting closer, his voice remaining in that low, growling register even as he hurled insults at her. “What the fuck do ye think it means?”

"Um," Nicola began, swallowing past the intense mixture of fear and  arousal she always fucking felt when his wings were out. Always. "It’s breeding season?"

She yelped in surprise; he’d raised his wings up high with a snap of air and simultaneously leapt to within a foot of her, placing his strong hands on her hips. “That’s right,” he breathed, and leaned his head down to her ear. “I want tae breed. I want to chase down the best and most fertile women and shag them stupid until they are so fucking full of my seed they cannae move.” His tongue touched her neck softly for a second and she cried out, not seeing his cruel smile against her neck. “Maybe I even want you. Naked. On the floor. Being pumped full of me and begging fer me to get a little winged baby on ye.”

Her mind spun. Was Malcolm Tucker, the Dark Lord of Westminster, seriously suggesting he wanted to father a child? With her? Miss Omnishambles?

The rational part of her mind said no, that this was the ideal time to turn tail and run back to the office as fast as her legs would carry her, but her body was screaming to let him do it. A jolt of electricity shot through her, a kind of dark recognition Nicola didn’t want to admit feeling, but the truth of it hit her squarely in the chest: Malcolm Tucker was the most frightening, most seductive creature she’d ever seen.

***

For the next few days after that, Nicola Murray found it increasingly hard to pay attention during media training. She must look extremely attentive to the other MPs and their advisors attending as she stared at Malcolm, but she could barely hear a word he was saying about What Not to Fucking Disclose to Journalists, being as she was lost in her own fantasies involving the powerful Director of Communications.

_Malcolm Tucker bending her over and mounting her like a wild beast as his magnificent grey — no, silver — wings, sleek and pointed, spread wide above them, biting and clawing into her in a savage sexual frenzy until he drew blood, screeching like a hawk as he…_

At that point Nicola needed to excuse herself to the ladies’ room to take care of herself, having remembered that he could smell arousal on others.

When she came back into the press office, Malcolm’s raised eyebrows and pointed look said it all.

The rest of the meeting went as well as normal, with Malcolm finding new and inventive ways to call her and her staff a pack of useless idiots, and ended with his almost customary snarl of “get out of my fucking sight.” Nicola walked from his office in a haze, her own release an hour ago forceful enough to exhaust her completely and she wanted nothing more than a good long nap right now. The pack of papers that Malcolm’s ever-loyal personal assistant Sam handed to her on the way out put pay to that idea: a complete listing of every avenue of public opinion and what she was allowed to say to them. The list even went down to meetings with her children’s teachers.

Malcolm really did see everything.

Her life, mapped out by that great bird of prey, rested in that manila folder.

She wondered if he had a similar file for himself, and if so, where she appeared in it.

Nicola tried to focus her eyes long enough to read the fucking thing, trying in vain not to let her mind wander back to her fantasies. God, those fucking wings! They were soft as eiderdown, long and pointed like a falcon’s, and his new plumage highlighted his grey eyes and silvered hair. She wanted nothing more than to stroke the length of them and rub her face over the soft feathers.

_Get a grip, Nicola_ , she ordered herself. No matter how pretty and soft those wings are, they are still attached to Malcolm Fucking Tucker, also known as evil incarnate.

Evil incarnate who, evidently, wanted to breed with her. Unless that was just another of Malcolm’s lies designed to keep her off-balance. Which, she sighed, was probably more likely. The silver wings with their flawless brilliance _were_ likely to have something to do with his species’ reproduction cycles, but he was still Malcolm, with his iron-trap mind and cruel streak that even Satan would envy.

She comforted her aching head with a promise of indulging her fantasy again later tonight when she was alone in bed, and started through the long pages of instructions.

_She would plant soft butterfly kisses on the base of his wings, at the ultra-sensitive place where they adjoined his back, where silky skin melded into the silver downy feathers. She’d watch him arch his back and moan, silently pleading for more…_

"My office. Now."

Malcolm wanted to “go over” the “guidelines” with her and make sure she’d understood them, because she’d spent the meeting “lookin’ like a nun at a fucking _Magic Mike_ screening.”

Nicola was certain that the communications director took a sadistic pleasure in making things harder for her than they already were.

"Yes, well, about that, I forgot to mention that I—"

"What, that ye have a fucking fetish for feathers and ye want to wrap yer naked body in my wings? I fucking knew that already. Maybe next time, don’t leave media training like shit through a Mexican tourist to go toss yeself off in the bogs, yeah?"

"How the—"

"—ye fuckin’ _reek_ of it. Your hands especially — tell me, was it both hands ye needed or was one enough for your fucking fantasies?”

Nicola’s teeth ground together momentarily. “Do you have to be so disgusting?” she asked, risking a look into storm-grey eyes red-rimmed with pure vitriol. “I’m just here for—”

"Yeah, your orders. So listen the fuck up, and if I catch the slightest fuckin’ whiff of ye gettin’ off on this, I will personally stitch your fucking fanny closed with catgut."

***  
  


She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Nicola now declined meetings with Malcolm and sent Ollie or Glenn instead. She just couldn’t sit there with him without getting wet and desperate, and he knew it. 

She couldn’t get Malcolm out of her mind — the way he moved even with his wings hidden, the impression of power and fury and concentrated malice he gave off. She tried to reconcile the surface illusion of the human Director of Communications she feared and hated with the underlying reality of the winged predator she feared and wanted — no, _craved_ , with every single inch of her body.

The sight of those wings, the long feathers, the silver sheen, the “breeding plumage” as he called them, drowned out any rational thought. He wanted to mate. He’d even hinted she was a possibility before dismissing the idea because of her marriage.

But James hadn’t touched her since their youngest was conceived. Finding pregnant women revolting was just one part of his charming personality, and she strongly suspected he had another woman on the side.  His revulsion at the sight of her stretch marks after the last pregnancy had been the final nail in the coffin for their marriage.

Now there was Malcolm, who apparently found women with the signs of fertility or pregnancy on them absolutely fascinating.  She felt gorgeous and sexy again for the first time in years when he’d stood there with his silver wings and talked of breeding with her.

Her hand stroked down her chest and rested on her abdomen.  Could she go through with the whole pain and stress of pregnancy and birth again? With Malcolm Tucker’s child, no less?

She thought of a young child with grey wings and her eyes and shuddered as she felt her underwear start to soak up her arousal. Oh she could. She really could.

The door to her office slammed open, pulling her back to reality.

"Jesus Christ, Murray!" Malcolm shouted. "Still hiding in yer office tossing off, I see. Maybe if your fucking useless, bent husband gave ye a shag once in a while, you could actually get through the fucking press meetings without soaking yer knickers for me."

Nicola had had enough. “He won’t, alright? He’s so fucking revolted by the sight of me that he’s off porking his staff, so you’re not the only one who finds me totally sickening. Sorry to burst your bubble Malcolm, but you’re not really special. Your disgust of me is nothing, _nothing_ compared to a man who takes one look at a stretch mark and runs away with his hand over his gob. Runs away from his own damn wife!” Shocked by her own temerity in spilling out truths that had lain hidden for years, Nicola sank her face into her hands and tried not to let tears fall.

Malcolm looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, then ran his hand over his mouth. “Do I look like a fucking agony aunt to you? Press Office. In thirty.”

She spoke from behind her hands. “I’ll send Ollie, I’m not up for the ceremonial Malcolm bollocking today.”

To a different man, that may have worked. Not on Malcolm Tucker. “ _Thirty minutes_ ,” he repeated, “ _Press Office_. If I don’t see you standing there, I’ll make it my personal mission tae show you what a fucking dreadful day _really_ is by rippin’ your hands off at the wrists an’ eating them so ye might actually get some work done instead of spending most days with ye fingers up your fanny.”

With a swirl of a charcoal-grey jacket he was gone, and she heard his Scots-accented voice recede into the distance, shouting praise (rare) or insults (often) at people he walked past. The man was absolutely revolting, almost sadistically cruel, bereft of morals, uncaring, and, as far as she could tell, unable to show any empathy for anyone. Nicola hated him and desired him in equal measures, loathed how he controlled her life and wanted him inside her, bringing her to a mind-blowing orgasm as those liquid-silver wings spread above her. God knows that was the only redeeming feature he had anyway.  
  


Maybe her eldest daughter was right, maybe she _did_ need therapy.

***

Malcolm rolled his eyes when Nicola finally showed up at his office; she looked knackered, but at least she had the nous to clean her face up and fix her makeup so she did’nae look like she’d been howling her eyes out.

He ran a hand across his face once again and looked up at her, trying to force his mind away from thoughts of breeding and mating. “I see the fuck-up fairy godmother has finally graced me with her presence.” He slapped a few newspapers down on the desk. This was going to be a very long fucking meeting indeed.

***

 

His shoulder blades itched as the meeting dragged on, a constant prickling feeling he recognised as the urge to bring his wings out. Normally, he could ignore that feeling, but since his breeding plumage had come in, it had been getting a lot harder. Damn things wanted to be out all the time, carrying him through the skies so he could _find fertile women and take them and mate with them and breed lots of little Tucker offspring — a whole flock of tiny grey-winged children who would look up to him as father —_  
  


_FUCK. Not now._ Now was not the fucking time to get a hard-on, not in front of his staff and especially not in front of the social affairs minister. Malcolm thought hard about entirely  non-sexy things — John Prescott squatting naked on a glass table, Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, and sundry other such images — and felt a tiny quiver of triumph as his semi-hard cock settled back down to soft and inactive. If he could just concentrate on dealing with Glummy _fucking_ Mummy in front of him —

Murray babbled something about her children — _her three healthy children,_ his instincts whispered — and just knew this was going to be a losing battle. When he’d seen his glorious new plumage that fucking morning after a long month of molting, he should have just called in dead, or said he was taking it up the arse from wee Jamie. Neither of those would have been as bad as what his instincts had made him do.

Displaying breeding plumage to the females was normal and as fucking natural to the Winged as snackin’ on raw bloody pigeon, but it wasn’t normal to flightless humans at all. Better for him to have got ink and splashed it all over his new silver wings than show them off to Nicola fucking Murray of all people. Now the stupid fucking woman couldn’t stop fucking panting in his presence and the smell, that fucking _smell,_ of her arousal and fertility kept making him think of mating and siring his offspring and — _oh fer FUCKS SAKE!_ Malcolm swore internally as he felt his trousers push out once again by the rapidly hardening length of his cock.

  
  


***

Nicola shut her office door behind her and just collapsed on her uncomfortable Malcolm-approved chair. What the fuck had that meeting been about? It must have been something important, judging by the thick sheaf of papers she’d come back with, but all she remembered right now was watching the shifting play of expressions run back and forth across Malcolm’s face. His usual ice-cold glare of hatred kept moving, shifting to something she’d swear blind was near sensual — heavy-lidded eyes and shallow breathing — before flicking back to glaring at various people.

His seductive look had fallen on her quite a few times. In fact, she’d had to tell Ollie afterward that he must be imagining things — Malcolm Tucker wouldn’t spend any part of a meeting looking over at Frumpy Murray like he wanted to fuck her over the table right there and then — even though she was sure she hadn’t convinced the young policy adviser of anything, except perhaps that he was going mad.

_Oh Malcolm,_ she sighed inwardly and pillowed her weary head on her arms, _just tell me what you want…_

***

"Now, watch carefully, I’m going tae teach ye how to hunt down a cabinet member who just went arse over tits on yesterday’s Question Time…"

Nicola looked up from her desk to see Malcolm Tucker stalking the hallways. He was wearing his usual steel-grey Armani suit, but his great wings were out and folded behind him, the tips barely brushing the carpeted floor.

A half-dozen tiny, strikingly beautiful winged children, all dark-haired and grey-eyed, their dove-grey wings perfect miniatures of their father’s, followed him like a herd of ducklings, each carrying a sheaf of paperwork under their slender arms and chirping something that sounded suspiciously like “cuntcuntcuntcunt!”

When Malcolm took a Curly Wurly from his pocket, the children opened their mouths and peeped until he broke the candy into pieces and dropped them into their waiting mouths.

"Chew it fucking slowly, right? And if you’re good, I’ll rip Murray in DoSAC apart and feed her to ye…"

A sharp knock on the door woke Nicola from her midday nap, leaving her with the distinct feeling that her life had taken a turn for the truly surreal.

***  
  


_Christ, can that woman fucking hold it together at all?_ Malcolm damn near rolled his eyes at the slimy, toadying email from Ollie Reeder reporting to Malcolm that he’d found the social affairs minister having a nap in her office.

Fucking pathetic. At least once a week, he’d get some little communication from that lanky streak of piss, trying to climb his way up Malcolm’s arse with some useless, playground-tattling titbit of information — everything from Nicola’s late arrival in the office one morning to what she’d said about Malcolm behind his back after a press briefing.

He gave fewer fucks than a gelded monk what she said about him. Woman couldn’t even come up with imaginative insults, fer fucks sake. It was mildly amusing to read yet another crawling email from Frodo Faggins grassing Nicola up for referring to Malcolm as a “soulless bastard,” but it was repetitive and fucking dull. He’d often wander in to the Press Office after getting one of those, just so he could hear some actual talented cursing from the horde of professional Scottish bastards he’d hired.

Speaking of, the one thing he _didn’t_ need to do today was go into that office; Malcolm could hear his Senior Press Officer and one of the Caledonian Mafiosos in full voice through three layers of brick. Apparently Jamie wasn’t happy at Eoghan’s failure to get a single decent piece of information despite the fact the man had been shagging a prominent member of a Tory think-tank for weeks. Malcolm allowed himself a small smile at this, not at the failure, but the fact that the entire argument was conducted in Gaelic — which kept it not only incomprehensible to most visitors, but also sounded like World War fucking III was going on.

English wasn’t the _best_ language for swearing, but Malcolm had to make do when talking to the likes of Murray. Sleeping in the office, what next…?  
  


“ _Sam!_ ” he yelled on his way out of the office. “Get some fucking Red Bull an’ have it sent over to DoSAC with a note saying I will personally eat the firstborn of the next fucker I hear about sleepin’ on the job!”

_Firstborn, mating —_ his mind whispered, and he trod on his own foot in anger. Breeding season _had_ tae be coming to a close at some point, it just had to. He’d even tried tugging himself off in the loos a couple of times to sate his libido and let him get some fucking work done, discreetly mind, and he’d felt a slight sense of victory when he’d come into his hand and felt his body relax down. Ten minutes later, he’d got firm again after passing one of the women in the corridor — she’d just come into her most fertile time, and her perfume couldn’t hide that scent from him. He’d thanked all the dark gods of politics that he always carried a large wodge of papers.

***

Nicola had spent extra time in the morning getting herself ready for today’s media briefing. She chose the shortest, tightest skirt she’d get away with wearing in Whitehall, slipping it over her best seamed silk stockings before slipping on the black high heels she hadn’t worn since before she’d had her first child. She’d passed over the cardigans and floral prints in her closet in favour of a ruffled white blouse that showed a bit of cleavage. She thought about adding some perfume, but then decided against it.

James didn’t even notice, but Malcolm did. When she caught sight of him at the briefing, he couldn’t take his eyes off her, his grey eyes smouldering with naked sexual hunger.

***

“Yes, thank you, your opinion has been duly noted, numbered, and ignored. Next time ye think ye have anything valuable to say about the fucking welfare state, go dip yeself in fucking flour and make a cunt biscuit!” Malcolm hung up his mobile and threw it on the desk. His voice was roughened by the hours he’d spent trying to _not_ think about Nicola’s legs in those stockings and the tight skirt she had on over them. Her arse looked fucking fantastic whenever she bent over. She’d evidently decided to force him into a decision when she showed up to the Friday morning briefing in those sinfully seamed stockings and black spike heels. Her face certainly showed it; _you want me, I want you, I’m ready, say the word_ , she’d all but screamed at him, and he’d had to spend a while in the bogs later, just trying to relieve the urgent, aching need of him.

But, he couldn’t. It was Friday evening and he just didn’t fucking care anymore; he couldn’t carry on like this. He dialled her number.

“Nicola Murray—”

“My office. Thirty minutes. I want it.”

Not waiting for an answer, he hung up and sat back in his chair, looking down at his traitorous, hugely swollen cock. He started stroking it through his trousers, trying to get it to calm down. Fuck, he hoped Nicola would get here soon.

***

She entered the office on very unsteady legs and carefully closed the door behind her, concentrating on the lock, before making her way over to the desk, where Malcolm sat with his back to her — silver wings showing at either side of the chair, gleaming in the dim light.

He was quiet, the room dark on this evening, and she wondered if he’d gone to sleep or something. Her slow, measured footsteps somehow got her over to his desk without betraying her, and she stopped as his chair turned and the man rose to his feet with the lithe grace of a predator.

Nicola’s gaze lingered hungrily over his half-naked body. He was fantastically trim for a man his age, all sleek, whipcord-lean muscle over bird-fine bone. She was, and would always be, caught off guard at how savagely beautiful Malcolm Tucker was.

“You came.” It was neither a question nor a statement of surprise. His hand reached out and cupped her jaw as those great silver wings slowly unfolded to their full stretch in a rustle of feathers. They were so close, shining so brightly, almost begging to be caressed, kissed, stroked — demanding to be worshipped as such beauty deserved.

Nicola took a few steps closer, her voice shaking as much as his. “I did.”

“So, ye know what happens now?” His hand slid down her neck and rested on the upper swell of her breast.

“I have a good idea.” Nicola leaned into his touch and gingerly reached out her hand to stroke the soft downy feathers on his back. The caress made him shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. He arched his back and moaned deliciously as she fingered the base of his wings, where bare pale skin suddenly gave way to an expanse of short, fluffy silver down. Her hands then moved to the upper curve of his wings and gently stroked before she finally gave into the temptation to nuzzle her face into the silky-soft feathers, covering them with worshipful kisses. Something so beautiful had no business being attached to Malcolm fucking Tucker, it just wasn’t right. It would have been better if he’d had bat’s wings.

His hands were starting to wander too, more slowly than she expected from the volatile communications director, traveling down to her waist and around to her front. “Look at ye, all dolled up like a wee lassie out for her first date.” One slender hand slid even further and edged under her skirt. “You could still get tae fuck out of here, ye know. Go back tae yer bent husband an’ play Sylvanian fucking Families ferever.”

Nicola shook her head in response. She didn’t want James, she wanted _him_ — tall, dark, brooding, fucking sexy as hell, and close enough to her right now that she could see, even in the shadows, his cock already hard and eager for the evening to proceed. A fallen angel — who could kiss a woman into heaven and fuck her into hell. She shouldn’t want him — he was a monster, the Demon of Downing Street, well-known for his cruelty and manipulations. She wanted him so badly it hurt.

"I came to this office because you want me, and because damn fool I am, I want you too." She looked into his grey eyes, transfixed, and kissed him.

His great wings rustled, and she suddenly found herself clutched in an inhumanly strong, surprisingly warm embrace as he returned the kiss. He bit her lip, his tongue dancing with hers inside their mouths, and he only broke the kiss to take a breath before kissing her again, even harder, with more hunger.

She could feel his erection pressing against her stomach as his lips and teeth moved to her neck, kissing and nipping. His strong hands guided her towards the desk, and she used her arm to steady herself as she was pushed against it. “God I’m going tae have ye,” he gasped as she stroked along his downy feathers, “going tae shag you right here.”

He was starting to pant, his wings beating in time with every heavy breath. That voice which was usually raised in anger — often at her — was now a deep, husky whisper. “I’m gonna Mate with ye.” No sooner had he said that, Nicola had taken her blouse off, standing in the office with nothing but a sinfully seductive black lace bra between his mouth and her breasts.

He unclasped the bra with long, deft fingers; Nicola let it fall to the floor as his caresses moved to her shoulders and back. She moaned softly as Malcolm kissed the exposed skin of her collarbone and chest before sweeping his wings forward, so that the tips of the feathers tickled lightly along her sides and left goosebumps. He teased her, moving his wings so that his feathers brushed over the skin of her thighs and swollen breasts, softer than sheets of silk.

He found a nipple with his lips, then started to nibble gently while swirling his tongue around the stiffening pink flesh. After a few minutes, he went to the other nipple to provide the same treatment. He sucked and licked and bit until they were hard as pebbles, his tongue trailing back and forth across the soft skin and even the stretch marks.

Nicola ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms; they were thin, but so sinewy and _strong_. She remembered that Malcolm had once knocked Glenn Cullen down with a single punch, but she got the feeling that if he’d really needed — or wanted — to, he could have snapped him in half without a second thought; he’d just toss the broken body aside and continue on his way. She couldn’t stop her hands shaking as she unfastened Malcolm’s belt and unbuttoned his fly, but she managed it. Once the fly was open and the trousers pulled down over his narrow hips, she reached inside his boxers to stroke the warm, velvety soft skin of his hard cock. He growled and raked his nails across her back when she rubbed her thumb over the head, already wet and slicked over with pre-come.

***

Malcolm pushed Nicola aside to untie his shoes, kick them off, and step out of his trousers, before helping Nicola out of her skirt and stockings. He ran his fingers over her soaking wet knickers, rubbing and teasing at her clit through the soft satin, before yanking them off her pert arse and down her legs.

Stopping just before he slid into her, Malcolm raised her chin up and asked one last time if she was truly sure. “I’m no’ wearing any kind of rubber johnny here, an’ I’m in breeding season so your chances of getting knocked up are pretty fucking high…”

Nicola only moaned. “Take me, please.”

With a predatory strength and swiftness that left her breathless, Malcolm took her in his arms and lowered her to the floor.

His powerful wings spread out over them until all Nicola could see was feathers, feathers that shone as if made of beaten silver. She felt sheltered, completely open, knowing no danger could make it past the haven of his great wings. She felt the burning heat of his kiss, the electric attraction as he touched her, the strength and softness of his wings as they wrapped around her body. For a moment Nicola thought she was dreaming again, and she’d wake up back in the dreary DoSAC offices. But her eyes were open, and his lithe body was above hers.  
  


***

Malcolm breathed a huge sigh of relief as he slowly slid himself into her, raising his wings to tent over the both of them. The world outside didn’t matter, all that existed was him and the willing, fertile and beautiful woman he was mating with — so wet and hot and tight around him. _Mating. Finally._ The obsessive and increasingly loud demands of his libido in recent days settled back, mollified for now.

Nicola raised her legs, wrapping them around him and meeting his slow thrusts with her hips, all the while being kissed and caressed in a way she’d never associated with him before. His skin was hot, fevered, the driving movements of his cock heating her from the inside, the heat spreading out to her limbs. Her hands stroked along his shoulders and wings and found them as hot as the rest of him. “Jesus, Malcolm, you’re _burning._ ”

"Accelerated metabolism, love," he managed to say between thrusts, and his wings fluttered almost in response, gently fanning air across them both. It wasn’t just that, but he had no desire right then to get into a protracted conversation with the feather-obsessed Murray about his species, so he shut her up the best way he knew.

Hot, deep, slow but feral kisses were laid over and over onto Nicola’s mouth, silencing any further queries far faster than any of his bollockings had ever managed to achieve. She could barely even get enough air to moan, his lips ravaging hers over and over again, never stopping — not even when her hands found the sweet spot in between his wings that made him growl and slide even deeper into her.

Streetlight shone through the window and reflected off his silver feathers, glittering her skin in shifting tides of light as he moved above her.  A few silver downy feathers fluttered loose between her fingers and fell onto her body. More followed, tickling her skin and settling on and around their slowly writhing bodies on the floor.

"Are you making a nest?" She managed to gasp out, and moaned as he bit her shoulder in response.

"Fuck, yes." Malcolm hooked one of her legs around his lean waist and shook his wings above them, allowing more soft feathers to fall. "Need a nest tae mate in, tae breed in —" He stopped talking and raised himself up on his arms, his wings spreading out to their full, immense span, his gaze sweeping down her lovely body.

_Her body. Her fucking fertile body, lying there in his nest._ "Fuck," he whispered, transfixed. "Oh fuck."

"What’s wrong?"

_How tae say I’ve never wanted tae properly Mate with a Wingless until you came along and my body is telling my mind tae go fuck itself and all I want tae do right now is come in you…_ Malcolm didn’t reply, just lowered himself down and bit gently on her neck, thrusting in and out of her at a slowly increasing pace.

"Harder," Nicola moaned. "Please, Malcolm…fuck me harder!"

Malcolm muttered something against the shell of her ear, then repeated it louder, gritting his teeth.

"I could come right fucking now. I _need_ tae come right the _fuck_ now.” It was too much, being constantly turned on all week, then the frustration of seeing her walk around in those clothes, those sinfully tempting clothes, all fucking day. He’d been at boiling point when she’d walked into the fucking office.

***

Nicola clutched at his wings as her body started to tighten. Malcolm’s heavy breathing, his low moans and guttural growls, his feathers brushing against her skin, were exciting her in ways she’d never imagined.

"Come in me!" she said, her voice rising an octave as her own orgasm started to build. "Don’t stop!" A tiny part of her mind was screaming _you’ve got no protection, he could get you pregnant!_ But far from it bothering her, the possibility was turning her on even more. Magnificent, powerful, _beautiful_ , his luminous wings at full stretch above her, Malcolm had her in his arms and had captured her, heart, body, and soul. She had no thought for anything else.

  
  


***

He could feel her tighten around him, her skin flushed red and hot. Instincts as old as his race drove him onward, pressing him to fasten his teeth onto her neck and bite as if she was a Winged female, to deepen his thrusts, rub and stroke against her clit to draw out her climax — to make her spasm and cry out under him, opening herself up to his seed. His wings beat once, powerfully, as if in triumph, and then stretched out high at either side of him, his muscles trembling at the strain. His teeth and nails sank even deeper into Nicola’s skin and he dimly registered her screaming and coming under him again, but he was so close, so _fucking damn close and he needed to breed and the woman under him was coming and he couldn’t hold on —_

With the harsh cry of an eagle, Malcolm came, shuddering and clawing at Nicola’s hair, shoulders, and back as their bodies rode the aftershocks. Deeper and more satisfying by far than his attempts this week to sate his sexual appetites on his own, his orgasm swept through him and left him drained. His great silver wings lowered to cover their panting, exhausted bodies.  
  


***  
  


That should have taken everything out of him — but his body was already reacting to the sweet scent of her fertility and arousal. Raising himself up onto his elbows, he looked down at Nicola’s flushed and sweat-shined face, and started to once again slide himself in and out of her lushly swollen, sopping wet core.  
  


"You’re still hard?" Nicola reached around him to stroke and caress his wings, smoothing down the silver feathers. "Didn’t you just—"

"Yes I fucking did, an’ now I need tae do it a-fucking-gain. Ye’re fertile, I’m in breedin’ season, it’s not something I can stop—" The last words of that sentence were practically groaned through Malcolm’s teeth and it wasn’t long before he gave a shudder and came again, raising his wings high to shake more soft feathers over her.

Nicola yelped as Malcolm’s continual steady thrusts caused yet another orgasm to start bubbling up inside her. It was strange, inhuman, and bloody _erotic_ to have a man come over and over into her with hardly any rest, biting and clawing into her the whole time. She didn’t want it to ever stop, not even when she felt his come pulse into her in great hot ribbons once more, not even the sensation of it trickling down her thigh along with her own arousal when he’d come _again_ and her body couldn’t hold it all any longer — oh god, he was so virile, he’d wear her out, he’d fuck her to death.

***

Much later into the night, Malcolm — shuddering, panting, gasping for air, and with a heart rate that read more like the RPM of a jet engine — was finally able to stop. His wings had tired out after the fourth — or was it fifth? — time, just flopping over them both and lying there like two silver-foil blankets. He didn’t even know if he could retract the fucking things right now.  
  


As exhausted as the great bird of prey above her, and pleasantly full to bursting with his seed, Nicola just held him close as they sank into a dreamless doze, right there in the office.

***

  
  


"No, ye daft woman, for the last time, we don’t lay eggs. Jesus."

"And if I ask you whether I’m pregnant, or likely to be, I expect an answer, Malcolm. Not told to fuck off and Google it!" Nicola hadn’t been sleeping well since the fun and games, and was sorely tempted to just head back to her office for a peaceful nap in her chair. Malcolm was so much nicer to her in her dreams.  
  


"What tae fuck do ye want me to say? I don’t fucking know!" The vein on Malcolm’s temple beat harder than ever. "I’ve had a metric fuckton of sex, and I never once felt the need tae flip a Wingless over and screw fer ages, so I don’t know!" Stopping briefly to run a hand over his face, he took a deep breath and seemed to pull on some reserve of energy to calm down slightly. “Fuck, look, I got work tae do — fucking David tossface Spencer over at Health has covered himself in more bloody shit than an NHS operating theatre again — so if I do a bit of investigation later fer ye, will you get the _fuck_ outta my office now?”

Nicola wasn’t the best judge of Malcolm’s moods, but even she knew that was the most she was going to get from him right now. On tired, aching feet she made her way back to her own office, hung up her coat, and requested a cup of lemon tea from Terri before slumping in her chair.

Unlocking her computer screen — Malcolm went absolutely apoplectic at anyone who didn’t lock their workstation — she brought up a Google page and carried on doing her own research. Internet forums were perhaps not the best source of reliable information, but one can’t exactly go to WebMD about pregnancy symptoms after a cross-species mating with a creature that isn’t even supposed to exist anymore.

Later, at home, she ran through a few more sites after putting the children to bed and settling on the sofa with some chamomile tea and her ever-present bottle of Rescue Remedy. Some of the information she found was so outlandish it could be dismissed instantly, but there were some bits that kept coming up time and again which sounded plausible, which she listed on a notepad:  
  


**Winged didn’t lay eggs**   
  


**Winged could mate with humans, had a similar gestation period, and could breastfeed**

**Winged pregnancies were often associated with an intense craving for fresh meat** (Nicola nearly gagged at this one)  
  


**The chances of pregnancy increased the more times mating was done**

  
  


And the last, most important item: **Winged/non-Winged matings were far more prolific than pure Winged matings.** The hybrids and their correspondingly high reproduction rate were apparently how the few Winged who hadn’t been killed in the Uprising ended up being bred out of existence. The genes for wings and the rest of the traits — enhanced strength, senses, and so forth — were recessive.

Sitting back, her tea long cold, Nicola found herself thinking, going through the events of that night — that long night when Malcolm had given in to his primal desires and taken her over and over on his office floor — and tried to look at them rationally. One night of sex doesn’t guarantee a child, after all — she and James had had to try for weeks for all three of theirs — so even after all that, it was a slim chance. Surely?

Her hand stroking her midriff as she wondered whether Winged life had taken root within, Nicola went upstairs for the cleansing indulgence of a long, hot shower before bed and promised herself that she’d pick up a pregnancy test in the morning. Just to ease both their minds when it came up negative — assuming _those_ even worked with Winged. She promised herself that this would be the last time, that she’d try to stay away from him; she wasn’t sure she would be able to.

In her dreams that night, she was standing in her garden, cradling an adorable grey-winged baby. She looked up at the skies and smiled proudly as Malcolm gave the rest of their children flying lessons.


End file.
